Twilight of the Dimensions
by Nathan-Daystorm
Summary: Two try to become one...but destruction is the only result. Who can stop it? The League, of course...but which one?
1. Default Chapter

Twilight of the Dimensions

**Prologue**

**Haywire**

A tall, thin man dressed in black robes trimmed with red and gold sat, cross-legged, on a mat in a sparsely decorated room.  It had white walls, the only decorations being various melee weapons on the walls.  The man himself appeared to be young, though his boyish features seemed aged and wise somehow.  His hands rested in his lap, and his hood was down, letting his long white hair flow freely down his back and over his shoulders.  His lithe frame made no move at all, sitting perfectly still.  His eyes were closed in deep meditation, though on what, no one could tell.__

_The man, seemingly much younger without looking any different, danced swiftly with a beautiful girl, dark hair splaying about her head in every direction.  She was beautiful, lithe like him but painfully beautiful, almost angelic in her radiance.  Her crystal blue eyes contrasted with her hair loudly, but it was somehow a charming feature on her.  Her dancing was lively, and it seemed she was teaching the white haired man, due to his stumbles and occasional embarrassed looks.  Both laughed, obviously enjoying themselves._

_The man and the woman holding each other, the woman looking calm, while the man looked panicked, tears streaming down his face.  She was stroking his face and wiping away as many of the tears as she could, cooing softly that it would be all right, even as a bloodstain began making its way down her beautiful, green dress._

_The white haired man and dark haired woman lying next to each other in bed, the covers pulled up to their shoulders.  The white haired man was holding the dark haired woman close to him, while she sleepily nuzzled into his chest.  "I love you," she yawned, smiling before her eyes fluttered closed.  The white haired man smiled and let his own eyes flutter closed, his voice whispering out, "I love you too," just before sleep set in._

_The white haired man was dressed in his black robes, but a look of unbridled fury was painted on his face, and a gleaming sword was gripped tightly in his right hand.  He faced off against a man who bore some resemblance, though he looked older physically, and had brown hair and a trimmed brown beard.  Somehow, his entire being radiated an amused cruelty, and he held his own sword, though this one was gripped casually, as if he knew the white haired man would not strike.  The white haired man charged, but fell to his knees before he could make it to the brown haired man._

_The white haired man was on his knees, clutching the body of the dark haired woman to him, the front of her dress stained crimson with blood.  The white haired man was shaking, though with grief or rage couldn't be told.  "Sir?"  There was no response from the white haired man.  "Sir?"  Still no response came, and the voice began to sound more concerned.  "Sir?"  Finally, the white haired man lifted his reddened, tear-streaked face, full of rage and primal ferocity._

"Sir?"  The white haired man shook his head, returning to the present, his meditation interrupted.  "I know you requested that no one disturb you…."

"Don't worry about it, Jensen," the white haired man sighed, turning and looking at one of his apprentices, Jensen.  The man was barely more than a boy, eighteen years of age and still showing signs of a youth four years his younger.  The look on Jensen's face swallowed up any peace the white haired man thought about grasping that day, and he asked, "What is it?"

"We…we have noticed a problem."  The white haired man pushed himself up onto his feet hastily, straightening his robes as he walked.

"How bad is it, Jensen?"

"On a scale of one to ten?"

"Yes, I don't see why not."

"Ah.  Well then, ah…two hundred and eighty three."  The white haired man strode purposefully down the hall, apprentices milling about, some in confusion, several in varying states of panic.

"I am glad you've managed to retain some form of calm, Jensen," the white haired man stated, pulling his robes closed around him.

"Only on the outside, Sir," Jensen replied.  "Here we are."  Jensen pushed open the door and strode in, holding it open for his master, who moved in swiftly with a nod of thanks.  "These two."  He pointed at two maps, though they were odd, almost like pictures of space.  The white haired man waved his hand, and the holographic maps projected up into the air.  "The activity started earlier, but we weren't sure whether to disturb you until just now."  As the white haired man watched, the two holograms began to move closer and closer together, until suddenly they collided, and, as each was an ever-growing, ever-expanding universe, that was a bad thing.  They both attempted to continue growing, but could not, and instead began collapsing in on themselves.  Planets began to explode, crumble, or merely fade away as the universes began to collapse and merge.  The white haired man, not prone to showing too much emotion, was now staring and gaping openly, his eyes wide with shock and jaw dropped hopelessly.  He came back to himself quickly, though, and his eyes narrowed in determination.

"Can the reaction be reversed?"

"Yes, Sir," Jensen replied.  He pointed to one planet, green and blue from far away, and the hologram zoomed in.  There were two images of the same planet, and they just slightly overlapped at the edges.  "This planet here…Earth, I believe it's called…it is the last possible hope of reversing the reaction.  If the reaction goes any farther than this…."

"I know, Jensen.  I know," the white haired man replied, his voice grim.  "Do we know what caused this to happen?"

"No, Sir," Jensen sighed, shaking his head.  The white haired man turned to leave, and Jensen quickly piped up, "But we have a theory!"  The white haired man stopped, though he didn't turn around.  He had a theory as well, and he planned to follow it up.

"Go ahead, Jensen," the white haired man stated, half-sigh and half-consent.

"Meaning no offense, Sir…we think it has something to do with that spell you attempted."

"Yes…yes, I think it has everything to do with it," the white haired man replied, to the questioning gaze of his apprentice.  "I will go to Earth and do what I can to stop the reaction planet side.  If you find out anything, or in the slim chance that the reaction reverses itself, contact me."

"Yes, Sir," Jensen replied, but the white haired man was already pushing through the door.

"…Brother…."


	2. Drinking

Twilight of the Dimensions

Chapter One

Drinking

Rodney Skinner was at a bar.

It didn't matter which bar it was, not to him.  All he cared about was a quality bar.  Of course, he had two qualifiers for a quality bar:  The first was that one wouldn't wind up stepping in the vomited up lunch of another patron, and the second involved attractive serving girls with easily accessible bottoms.  This bar met both of those qualifications, and that is why Skinner was there.

Of course, Skinner was really there because he didn't want to return to the Nautilus just yet.  He'd gone overboard in his teasing of their fair vampiress once again, and he felt far, far safer in a bar where the only concern was a fight breaking out than anywhere on the Nautilus with an angry Mina Harker roaming about, even if she was trying to keep her cool.

So Skinner drank, as was one of his favorite past times.  Several of his colleagues firmly believed that Skinner couldn't hold his liquor, but that wasn't really the case.  He found that lips were often looser when the owner of the lips thought the only other person in hearing distance drunk, and it was an old habit of his to pretend to be intoxicated in order to glean information on where someone lived or where they would be during the timeframe he was planning one of his burglaries.  In fact, the training for this tactic had built up Skinner's tolerance for alcohol quite a bit.  Should any of his colleagues ever challenge him to a drinking contest, that fact would be found out the hard way.

Skinner also found it easier to think when drinking.  Not when drunk, mind you.  He agreed with the majority that it was incredibly hard to think when under the influence…but the process of getting there allowed for some rather deep contemplation, especially when one was in a bar by oneself.  While Skinner was known to make conversation with the patrons and serving girls alike, he was also known to be silent for quite a while, merely drinking and thinking to himself about something or another.  In all honesty, the bar was where Skinner did most of his truly deep contemplation, with any amendments to that thinking being made on the fly, normally as they happened.

Right now he was thinking about his relationship with his fellow Leaguers.  They didn't seem to like him as much as they did each other, with the exception of Nemo.  But then again, that man's deadpan expression left one wondering about his feelings towards everyone.  Skinner wasn't sure why he felt the way he did, really…maybe it was the little things, like Mina taking any opportunity to work instead of speak to him, or Quartermain constantly yelling at him to put some clothes on.

Well, okay, maybe Quartermain had a point, but the thing with Mina still stood.

Jekyll was a friendly enough sort, once you got over his light touches of jittery behavior, and Nemo was…well, friendly enough, given his want to hide his emotions.  Sawyer had warmed up to him, but he had saved the younger man's life from the big flamey guy, so that wasn't too unexpected by the invisible man.

Still, that was a fairly large portion of the League of Extraordinary Gentlemen that didn't really like him.  Sure, they could tolerate him, but there was a large, easily visible line between tolerating and liking someone.  Skinner tried to tell himself that he didn't care, that he was only working with these people and didn't need any of them to be his friends if they didn't want to be…it's just that he didn't believe himself.

……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….

Hawley Griffin was at a bar.

Griffin drinking was far from the most unusual thing known to man, but Griffin drinking at a bar was.  The places, if you asked him, were noisy, foul smelling, and full of obnoxious people that were even smellier than the floors in the place.

Given the alternative, though…well, he rather thought the bar was a step up from having conversation with Hyde.  If you could call that _conversation_.  More like Hyde trying – normally successfully – to frighten you, and you making some excuse to leave after the first minute or so.

Either that or wind up on his menu.

So, Griffin had decided that, as horrid as bars were, they were the lesser of two evils.  Besides, they weren't without _some_ redeeming qualities.  There _were_ attractive serving wenches that he could follow home, after all…and he'd have his fun then, oh yes, yes he would.  He couldn't help but snicker to himself as he lifted the bottle of wine he'd purchased and poured himself another glass.  The rest of the League – Hyde excluded – was off chatting with fatty Holmes, his round, almost completely barren head positively glistening in the light.  'Ignorant buffon' Griffin found himself mentally sneering.  Griffin recognized – even reveled in – his arrogance, but Holmes was far and away beyond him.  Besides, at least Griffin had the intelligence to be arrogant.  Holmes was just…well, the words stupid, idiot, moron, ignoramus, and – rather crudely – dumbass came to mind.

Well, in Griffin's humble opinion anyway, which really wasn't anywhere near humble.  With snicker followed by a content sigh, Griffin raised his hand.  "Wench," he called, signaling for a particularly young serving girl with an extremely attractive posterior.  She certainly seemed appalled to serve a man all in bandages, with large, tinted spectacles blocking out all view of his eyes, but serve him she must, for it was her job.  Her place, as well, if you asked Griffin.

No one ever did, but Griffin didn't care.  The lot – no, _all_ – of them could go to Hell, for all he cared.

The serving girl had approached, trying to act timid and submissive, as she was told the bandaged man preferred.  "Another bottle of wine," Griffin commanded, more or less tossing the appropriate amount of money at her.  She waited until her back was turned to let her face twist into a disgusted mask, but then jumped as Griffin slapped her bottom firmly.  "Well, get going, wench.  I won't wait all night."  She almost spun and slapped him, but took a deep breath, remembering that it was her job to put up with arrogant asses such as this one, and then walked off to get his bottle, taking the route that would give her backside the most cover.  Griffin furrowed his brows in annoyance, but no one could see it anyway, so he sighed and went back to contemplating the League.

They'd been contacted earlier in the day by Bond (who Griffin didn't have a particular problem with, despite his betrayal in their first mission) and told that M had something to discuss with them.  From the few details they'd been given, there was some new form of transportation that they were to investigate.  Bond had mentioned that the government suspected that the transportation was in some way magickal, which was the other reason, why Griffin wasn't attending the meeting.  After all, in earlier days, his invisibility would have been considered magick, but lo and behold, it was merely the result of the mixing of the proper chemicals followed by the ingestion of the liquid compound, which the mixing process created.  For anyone to believe in magick, in this day and age, was pure and utter stupidity, Griffin believed, and he refused to lower himself to such a level as that.  The other reason was the aforementioned lack of respect for their superior, which could normally be ignored in the presence of other compelling factors, but in this case, only added to his disgust with the entire thing.  Hell, if he was given the choice – and, truthfully, even if he wasn't – if they continued to stick to this nonsensical magick explanation, he wouldn't participate in the mission.

The serving girl returned with his wine, bringing him out of his thoughts and back to the present, where he suddenly realized that he didn't have to brood on the events of hours ago, or ponder events going on elsewhere.  As he watched the serving girl return to the dark, shadowed, and muffled back room, he realized he could have all the fun he wanted right here.

Well, the back room to be precise, but Griffin wasn't a man to quibble over such petty semantics.


End file.
